


(no) cards on the table

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is really just self-indulgent porn for one of my favorite IDW pairings. I don't have any excuse. /shrugs loudly</p>
    </blockquote>





	(no) cards on the table

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just self-indulgent porn for one of my favorite IDW pairings. I don't have any excuse. /shrugs loudly

Few things distracted Prowl from the work on his desk… but one thing that could was Springer’s helm bobbing over his lap. Yes, the mouth working eagerly over his spike was accruing far more attention from his processors than the datapad clenched in his hands. _Hand_ , rather; one had slipped down to grasp at the upsweep of Springer’s helm. The pressure from his other now focused too much on the datapad in it, making a crack splinter across the screen. The sharp crack and the upward cycling of Prowl’s vents were the only sounds in the room, but Prowl swore he could feel Springer smile against the warm plating of his spike.  The fragger didn't have to speak to taunt him! He licked a broad stripe from base to tip of his length, eliciting a gasp from the tactician.

Prowl dropped the datapad, bringing the free hand to his mouth to muffle a low moan. There was no mistaking the chuff of vents as an aborted laugh on Springer’s part… but then his mouth got busy again and Prowl's helm fall back, another groan escaping between clenched dentae. One of Springer’s hands tightened on Prowl’s hip and the tactician peered down again, blue optics overbright with charge. Springer didn’t exactly fit under his desk, so it was almost amusing: the wrecker’s backside hunched under his desk, helm and shoulders busy with his lap and legs, and his own long legs curled or sprawled underneath Prowl’s own chair.

He wasn’t sure why Springer had decided getting under his desk was the approach to take. The conversation had begun with Springer’s lewd comments on how surprisingly good Prowl was with his mouth. When Prowl had challenged that Springer taunted to cover his own insecurities about his ability to do the same -- well. It had ended up this way.

As Prowl had predicted.

Prowl tilted his helm as Springer gazed up at him, his lips sliding off of Prowl’s spike with an obscene wet noise. “What?” Springer simply grinned and began to rise to his knees, and Prowl narrowed his optics a hair. He almost expected Springer to just leave Prowl this way; he’d been awfully… accommodating. It was just the type of thing Springer would do! Yet before Prowl could part his lips and activate his vocalizer once more, Springer grabbed him by the hips and dumped him on top of his desk.

Door panels askew, he glared up at the broad mech, his hands flexing on the desktop as he felt his spike throb with neglect. “Springer--”

Whatever admonishment that had been on Prowl’s glossa choked off in a rough gasp as Springer leaned forward and took Prowl’s whole length into his mouth. Considering their difference in size, it wasn’t exactly a difficult task for the wrecker, but it was clearly the reaction that Springer wanted. He pinned Prowl's hips to the desk as he knocked datapads off carelessly, caring far less than the twitching tactician about the clatter of all that work to the floor.

Prowl tried to raise up off the desk, but as Springer renewed his efforts of mouth and glossa, Prowl let out a hissing vent and collapsed backwards upon the desk instead. Springer manipulated his legs with no resistance, tossing them over his shoulders. Prowl's doorwings twitched and wiggled between his back and the desk as he unsuccessfully bit back a groan when Springer hollowed his cheeks and sucked.

“F-fr-- _Springer_!” Prowl called, unable to help it, yet hating it at the same time for the utter satisfaction he knew it gave the accursed wrecker. He bucked his hips -- or tried to, Springer had an iron grip on him! -- his legs crossing behind Springer’s helm and clenching tight. Springer was pinning his hips hard, his fingers putting dents in Prowl’s plating as his hips continued to strain upwards, seeking _more_. He was _so close_ , with Springer bobbing his helm over Prowl’s length again and --

Prowl’s optics fluttered open as the sensation ceased once more, a soft whine escaping on his vents before he found the familiar grips of his control. Springer stood, his hands holding firm to Prowl’s hips and even rubbing his thumbs into the still-smarting dents they’d made in Prowl’s plating. Prowl lifted on an elbow, glaring impotently down at Springer, unable to even shift away from the colossal tease of a wrecker. Not that he really wanted to, he was loathe to admit, but just because Springer was such a pain in the aft. Springer grinned again, obviously enjoying Prowl’s little struggles against his grasp, but he soon lowered Prowl’s hips again.

“Springer…” Prowl said, his voice rasping and rough.

“What? Got requests? Instructions?” Prowl scowled, but Springer continued before he could speak. “Too bad.” Springer tugged him forward again, a gasp pulled from Prowl’s lips at a sudden intrusion stretching his valve wide. Prowl didn’t know when Springer had opened his panel and extended his spike, but right now, with the burn of the quick penetration, he couldn’t care about missing that little detail. Prowl grunted as he felt a shiver from Springer’s large frame, feeling his own quake as he focused on the feeling of the spike buried in him to the hilt. But Springer moved his hips and Prowl felt all the air in his intakes simply evaporate at the glide of that spike over his primed nodes; he pulled back slow, but he snapped forward quickly, drawing a short cry from Prowl as his backstruts arched off the desk’s top. Sensation burned up his spinal strut.

Springer huffed a breathless laugh. “Much better like this,” he grunted.

“Frag off,” Prowl hissed. Springer laughed again and just set up a hard, fast pace. And if Prowl thought the scratches from his own fingertips would be enough of a sight, well. He could feel his hips scraping across the desk’s surface with the force of Springer’s thrusts, his doorwings smarting at the drag and friction. It was brutal, unrestrained, indicative of everything he found infuriating about Springer.

And he loved every minute of it. Worse yet, _Springer_ knew -- so now, for him it was a game. Try to get Prowl to crack, to moan or whine or shiver in pleasure. Juvenile. But Primus was he good at it.

A sharp thrust aimed deep brought a muffled moan. Springer had a dreadfully good memory for this, too, because if he kept doing that --

He did, and pleasure engulfed him as each stroke hit nodes deep in his valve, drawing more noises from Prowl’s reticent vocalizer and making Springer huff more in amusement.

Prowl was not going to last long.

Springer never once relented, and in the next few thrusts he nudged against the topmost node in Prowl’s valve, making the tactician cry out in overload. Springer swiftly followed, causing another shiver down to Prowl’s protoform as he felt the hot burst of transfluid within him. And for a moment they laid there, heavy on his desk, hot despite fans and intakes screaming for cooler air. But eventually -- Prowl wasn’t exactly counting the nanoseconds -- Springer shifted to prop himself up on his palms. He smirked down at Prowl. Prowl scowled and pushed a hand in his face, which Springer only grabbed and pinned to the scuffed and dented surface of Prowl’s desk.

“You can’t get enough,” he rumbled, amused.

“Hardly,” Prowl scoffed, door panels rustling irritably between his back and the desk’s top.

“One day you’ll admit it.” Springer punctuated this with a lazy press of his hips, making Prowl gasp as it drove Springer’s still-extended spike into his sensitive valve. “You _need_ this.”

“Perhaps I will, since _your_ contrary response would be to leave me alone for once,” Prowl said, voice dry.

Springer leaned down, large frame still hot, drowning out everything else. He bent, putting his mouth right on Prowl’s audio, and -- “I don’t think that’s what you want at all.” It was hard to tell what rumbled and rolled more, Springer’s voice or his engine. But both sent a shiver down to Prowl’s core anyway, and Prowl had to admit -- internally -- with the heat and weight of Springer’s frame, his thick spike still seated deep within him, and the movement of lips over his audio… no. That wasn’t what he wanted. Springer was right.

But who needed to know that?

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [eta: edited out a cringe-y juxtaposition of phrases pointed out by graveyard |D thanks!]
> 
> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)


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